His fingers sank into her hair, cupping the back of her skull. “Ever played crambo?”
She raised her head. “What?”
Father Antoine smiled. “A rhyming game. But we haven’t any paper.”
Quillan shrugged. “We’ll do it without. You ask the question, Father; Carina, give a noun.”
Father Antoine cocked his head, then said, “Do you wear pomade?”
Carina sat up straighter. “Any noun at all?”
Quillan smiled. “Whatever comes to mind.”
“Toad.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Now I’ll make four lines of rhyme that answer the question using your . . . interesting noun.”
“You said anything.”
“Mm-hmm.” He sat for a few moments. “If with something sweet and smelly, I should coat my hair with a jelly, when I took me down the road, dust would coat me like a toad.”
Carina clapped her hands and laughed. “That’s why you never wore your hair like Mr. Beck.”
“That, Carina, is not the only reason.”
She sat up fully, locked her arms around her knees, and leaned the small of her back to the wall. “Now Father takes a turn. I’ll name the question.”
They sat and played until her stomach told her dinnertime had come. She said nothing, though, and when neither man mentioned food, she guessed they would need it more tomorrow. Per piacere, Signore, let us get out tomorrow.
Quillan got up and extinguished all but one of the candles. “Need to save what we have.” They talked in the near dark, Father Antoine telling about Placerville and other camps in the early days of his wandering. Carina grew weary and lay down again on the mat.
Father Antoine sat wrapped in a blanket, arms crossed above his knees, head resting on his arms. It looked as though he’d folded up, but she didn’t think he was asleep. His lips moved silently, and his closed eyelids shifted. In a while Quillan lay down on the mine floor beside her, his back to hers. The three blankets Quillan had brought gave them one apiece, but the cold grew steadily.
“We could light the timbers and melt our way out.” Carina said drowsily, expecting no answer.
But Quillan said, “It might come to that.” Then he pressed his back closer.
She drifted into sleep thinking this was the third time she’d slept in a mine. Once in the shaft where she’d fallen during the flood, once after the vigilantes hung Berkley Beck and all the roughs, and now under a massive blanket of snow. Signore, is there something I should know?
NINE
Walls of stone, iron bands, rope around my mind.
Air that thins, darkness deep, reasoning confined.
Fear, fear, fear.
—Quillan
QUILLAN LAY STIFFLY ALERT. Carina’s breath sounded like a soft breeze, Father Antoine’s a leather bellows. But he couldn’t get anywhere near sleep. He kept picturing Jack and Jock on the circular shelf outside the mine with a mountain of snow rushing down on them like a train. He prayed their demise had been swift—a broken neck, a blow to the head. But he guessed they’d been pummeled down the slope, then suffocated where they stopped, the powder more deadly than the icy boulders that carried it.
He pressed his hand to his eyes. How could he have known? Could he have? The day had been so clear and promising. He’d thought they’d spend an hour or two in the cave, then go back out to lunch by the horses and be home again before the sun set. Nature never considered his plans.
His team had survived the flood, both Jack and Jock swimming to safety. Was that only months ago? He pressed closer to Carina. He had thought he’d lost her then. It was the first time he realized how much she mattered.
His plan to escape was a good one—to wait until he could delve the snow. And he’d tried to make the waiting as easy as he could. He’d sensed Carina’s fear, and the word games had helped. Yes, his plan was sound. But what if the snow didn’t pack? What if it was too deep to get through with nothing but poles? How long could they stretch one lunch? Would someone come? Alex Makepeace? Possibly. He forced his eyes to close. It did no good to ponder it now.
Could they burn the timbers and melt the snow? They’d likely bring the tunnel down on their heads. Was there another way? Quillan couldn’t think. Had the horses seen it coming? Had they run? Why hadn’t he put them inside? They’d have been safe inside. There was just room for them all in the short tunnel before the shaft. He groaned. If he’d only brought them inside.
His thoughts circled again. They were driving him crazy. Crazy like Leona Shepard? His foster mother spent her days trapped in a mind that had lost touch with reality. His mother, too. Would his do the same? How long could he stay in here before he cracked?
Quillan rubbed his neck and searched the space around him. Something was different. Was it morning? The darkness was not so complete. If he moved his hand in front of his face, he could almost see it shift. Or did he imagine it? He raised up on one elbow. No. There was an almost imperceptible lightening.
Now if the day dawned clear and the sun could penetrate . . . He folded his blanket over Carina and felt for the candle he had used last night. He shuffled on his knees to his pack and took the box of matches from the outer pocket. He struck a flame and lit the candle. Neither Carina nor the priest woke up.
Quillan stood and studied the wall of snow by the dim light of the candle. Trying to melt the snow would be futile. And if they didn’t get out soon, they might need to burn the timbers to keep from freezing. What if they pulled the snow inward and pushed it down the shaft? How much would they have to move? And what if it rushed in and covered them?
He turned back and surveyed his father’s mine. Wolf had hewn and timbered these walls. Why? What would he want with a mine? Was it greed, as Leona Shepard claimed, or was he trying to find himself, as Rose suspected? Either way, it had ended tragically, both his parents dying in the flames that left only the burned-out foundation outside.
Outside. Would they ever get out? Quillan paced to the edge of the shaft and back to the wall of snow, to the edge and back again, then stopped as Father Antoine stood up. He looked old. He’d be as old as Wolf would have been or older. Fifty? Sixty? Older?
The priest joined him. “Is it morning?”
Quillan nodded. “I think so.”
Father Antoine carefully tugged each sleeve of his coat at the wrist, then pulled it closed at the neck. His breath formed a cloud. “We need to consider a certain matter of hygiene.”
Quillan glanced at Carina, who had not yet stirred. Now that the priest mentioned it, his own bladder needed attention. “Any ideas?”
Father Antoine shrugged. “We’ve no container, so a space will have to do. Your wife will need privacy. We could hang a blanket.”
The thought was infuriating, that a basic human function would soon make their space unbearable. Trapped and contaminated, like animals. He felt the nerves fuzz up his back and shook his head. “I’m getting us out of here.”
Quillan grabbed a pole and thrust it deeply into the snow outside the opening. Powder still, and something hard. A chunk of ice. But ice wouldn’t pack either. He thrust again and again, harder and harder. Powder flew. He almost lost the pole, pawed frantically at its end and yanked it back.
“Don’t break it.” Father Antoine spoke softly. “Nothing we have is expendable.”
Quillan turned, teeth bared. He threw the pole to the floor with a loud smack, then whama-whama-whama as it rolled to the wall.
Carina jerked her head up. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Her face, still softened by sleep, sent a poignant stab to Quillan’s ribs. He hadn’t meant to wake her. He pressed his palms to the splintered, spongy timbers of the entrance and dropped his forehead to his arms. His chest heaved.
Father Antoine gripped his shoulder. “Be calm. With God all things are possible.”
Quillan tensed. Did he believe or didn’t he? If God was in control, what was his part? He forked his fingers into his hair. He needed air,
needed space. The cave. There was more room in the cave below. Thoughts of the spacious cavern set his heart rushing. He turned. “We’ll move down to the cave.”
Carina sat up, pulling the blanket around her. The priest neither moved nor spoke.
Quillan grabbed the candle and held it over the shaft. “There’s more room down there.” He shot the priest a glance. “Room to accommodate needs. I’ll climb up hourly and check the snow.” He hoped no one would argue. He was set on moving them down. If nothing else it gave him something to do.
“How are we for food and light?” The priest gathered his blanket and folded it.
Quillan frowned. “Not as comfortable as I’d like. Two more sandwiches, some dried apples and plums. A dozen candles and a full box of matches.”
“I wonder . . .” Father Antoine hung the blanket over his arm. “Are bats edible?”
Carina missed the humor and shuddered.
Quillan quirked an eyebrow. “Pray that we don’t have to find out.”
Carina watched Quillan bundle together the tarp, blankets, empty sack, and extra coils of rope. How would moving down to the cave help them get out? It was pazzo. But she didn’t say so. Quillan’s tension was visible. She’d been right. Her husband needed to get out worse than she.
But how, Signore? She stood up and realized something much more pressing. Suddenly the cave seemed a very good idea. Che buono! “I’ll go down first. You can send the bundle to me when it’s ready.” She took her candle holder from the wall. Its candle was only a stump, but it would give her time to find a private place.
Quillan laid what he’d bundled onto the mat and pulled the rope up. She climbed into the harness, avoiding both men’s eyes. Were their bladders made of steel? With Quillan wielding the rope, she worked her way down the timbered side of the shaft and into the hole at the bottom, almost used to it now, though the dangling still brought her heart to her throat. Then she was down and quickly freed herself of the harness.
She pulled her candle holder from her skirt waist and lit the stump, then started immediately for a far end of the cavern opposite the tunnel to Wolf ’s cave. She and Alex had not gone that way, at least not together, though he had spent time alone taking samples and whatever else he did with his geological instruments. She reached a small alcove and hiked up her skirts. The sooner this was over with the better, and a torn edge of petticoat was better than nothing.
How basic life became. Relieved, she headed back toward the center of the cavern. The rope was nearly down, holding the tied-up mat and blankets and extra rope. She hurried over to catch it. Setting down her candle, she untied the bundle, then jerked the rope. Quillan drew it up. Soon she would not be alone.
Knowing they would have the same need she had upon their descent, she picked up the bundle and candle and started for the tunnel to Wolf ’s chamber. That would give them privacy. Though Quillan had tied it tightly, the bundle was ungainly, and she had to squeeze through one part of the passage. Her candle was very low by the time she reached the chamber.
As she stepped down she realized the light was better, nowhere near the pitch darkness of the outer cavern. She looked up. The opening angled so she could not see the actual hole through which the bats had flown the first time she and Alex found the chamber. But what if—
“Carina!” Quillan’s voice echoed from the cavern.
She shrank immediately into one wall, and a second later the chamber swarmed with bats. She dropped the bundle and held the candle in front of her face. The bats shied away, whirling and frustrated, before flying back to the cavern. Slowly she lowered the candle. Was he pazzo? She stalked back to the cavern.
Quillan turned. “There you are.”
“I’ll thank you not to send the bats my way again.” She tossed her hair back, shivering at the thought of those musty bodies and reptilian wings.
“I didn’t know where you were.” He looked as though every ligament in his body were drawn up short.
She reached for his arm. “Are you all right?”
He stiffened. “No. I have to get out of here.”
“Quillan, what about Wolf ’s chamber?”
He stared into her face. “What do you mean?”
“There’s an opening at the top. Could we try that way?”
He looked off toward the passage.
Carina searched the chamber. “Where’s Father Antoine?”
“He’ll be with us shortly.” Quillan caught her arm and pulled her with him.
Some of the bats still circled the ceiling, and Carina shot a glance over her shoulder before entering the narrow passageway. With both their candles it was bright enough, but again she noticed more light in the chamber.
Quillan said, “There’s daylight coming through.”
“Can you see the hole?”
“Not with that angle. Get the priest.”
Carina left the chamber, but Father Antoine was already in the passageway. “Quillan needs you. I think we might get out through Wolf ’s chamber.” Turning back, she and Father Antoine found Quillan studying the ceiling from beneath. Carina leaned against the wall. She could tell it was too high. What was he planning?
“I can’t tell if it’s open up there, but there’s certainly more light. Maybe this exit is not buried as deeply as the other one.”
Father Antoine studied the ceiling. “What does it matter, if we can’t reach it?”
Quillan turned. “Can you sit on my shoulders?”
The priest raised his brows. “Can you hold me?”
For answer, Quillan crouched. Carina crossed her arms, saying nothing as Father Antoine hiked his cassock and climbed onto Quillan’s shoulders. Even with the weight he’d lost, he was not insubstantial, as tall as Quillan and heavy-boned. How could this work?
With the priest sitting on his shoulders, Quillan strained, his muscles roping and bunching as his fingertips left the floor and he straightened slowly. Father Antoine stretched up, but they were still a good distance from the ceiling.
Carina brought one hand to her mouth as Quillan almost lost his footing on the slippery floor, and he braced a leg as they steadied themselves. “Can you see out?” Quillan’s voice was tight with strain.
“There’s a slanted chimney. I can’t see the end.”
“Is it large enough to fit through?”
“At this end, yes. I can’t quite—” he pulled himself taller from the waist—“I’m not high enough to see.”
“Come down.” Quillan spoke with clenched teeth. His face was red and his arms shook.
“Be careful.” It was out before Carina thought. Of course they were careful. But her nerves tightened just watching. Father Antoine was not young. And bearing that much weight, Quillan could be injured. Quillan bent, catching the priest piggyback. Father Antoine slid to the floor, and Carina breathed her relief.
They were no closer to escape, but at least neither man had broken his neck. Quillan crouched, rubbing one shoulder and hanging his head. He breathed heavily, in pain most likely. To hold a man his own weight like that . . . She wanted to comfort him, but his tension kept her back.
Father Antoine stretched his own joints. “Five feet more, at least, to reach it.” He circled beneath the hole. “If I stood on your shoulders . . .”
Still crouching, Quillan looked up. “I couldn’t hold you standing.”
“There’s nothing for it, then. Unless . . .” Father Antoine stopped pacing. “Carina . . .”
Quillan stood slowly, pressed his elbows back and stretched his chest. “Carina can’t do it. She shouldn’t even be in here.”
“Do what?” She stepped away from the wall.
Father Antoine turned. “If you stood on his shoulders, and he—”
“No.” Quillan shook his head. “It’s out of the question.”
The priest didn’t argue, and Carina sighed her relief. Did Father think her an acrobat? She would not perch at the top of a human ladder even if God had healed her fear of heights.
>
Quillan narrowed his eyes at the ceiling. “Come with me, Father. I’m going back up for the poles.”
Father Antoine followed Quillan out, and rather than stay alone in the chamber, Carina followed, too. Candle raised, she wandered to the edge of the well while Quillan climbed and then pulled the rope up after him. Father Antoine waited at the bottom, and soon the poles of her litter were coming down tied to the rope. How handy that litter was proving to be. A good thing she had decided to ride it. But then if she hadn’t, they would not be there at all.
Father Antoine grasped the poles and untied them. She held the light for him to see, but it was guttering now. They would have to get a fresh candle out of Quillan’s pack.
Her candle went out, leaving only Father Antoine’s candle sitting on the floor to light the enormous cavern. Strangely, it didn’t frighten her. She thought—no, she believed—God would get them out. Hope had grown from the comfort of their first prayer, and she had added others since. Father Antoine laid the poles down, and Quillan came back down the rope.
Carina wanted to tell him it would be all right, but she saw he was working it out in his own way. Physical and mental exertion. He and the priest started for the passageway. She called, “Wait. I need a new candle.”
Quillan half turned, and she dug into his pack. Father’s light was low and guttering, and she did not want to be fumbling in the dark. Quillan seemed unconcerned, almost oblivious now, his one focus the opening in Wolf ’s chamber. “Come on.” He started on, not bothering with a candle of his own. But he carried the poles and coils of rope.
Inside the chamber, he lashed the poles together, then fixed a rope at the center and knotted it tightly. Then he eyed the ceiling, circling as Father Antoine had done earlier, though when Quillan paced there was almost an animal tension in the motion. He held the tied poles like a javelin, but she could see frustration in his features. Finally he lowered them. “It’s no use. That angle blocks my throw from any side.”
The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine Page 10